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Ambassador Abaatira's body, along with the falsified autopsy report, was
released to a tearful Iraiti embassy staff. Word was cabled to Abominadad.
A long silence followed.
When instructions finally came back from the Iraiti Foreign Ministry, they
were terse: "SEND BODY HOME."
Since the national airline of Irait was forbidden to overfly every country
except Libya and Cuba, the body had to be flown to Havana, where an Air Irait
civilian plane ferried Ambassador Turqi Abaatira on his last voyage.
At Langley, the CIA congratulated themselves on a cover-up well done.
At Maddas International Airport, Kimberly Baynes, wearing an all-concealing
black abayuh, waited patiently for the body to arrive. She mingled with the
tearful family of the ambassador, out of sight of President Maddas Hinsein and
his escort, indistinguishable from the other women beneath her black veil. A
national day of mourning had been announced. Flags drooped at half-mast all
over the airport.
The plane touched down. The women threw back their heads and gave vent to
mournful ululations of grief.
Unseen, Kimberly Baynes slipped from the passengers' waiting area to the
cargo-receiving terminal.
In her black native costume, she lurked in the shadows as the polished
mahogany coffin was hoisted onto a toiling conveyor belt and carried down to
waiting baggage handlers.
The handlers lugged the coffin to a waiting baggage truck.
Five minutes passed while the driver of the truck finished a cup of bitter
chicory coffee-the only kind available in sanction-strangled Irait.
In those five minutes, Kimberly Baynes slipped up to the coffin and unlatched
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the lid. Lifting it with both hands, she held it aloft while a second pair
reached through slits in the abayuh to twist a long yellow silk rumal around
the dead ambassador's puffy, discolored neck.
She pulled it tight.
No, tighter, a voice from deep within her urged. The same voice that had
guided her through her days in Irait, imparting secrets and hidden knowledge
and even teaching her Arabic in a way she could not understand.
"But he's dead. O mistress," Kimberly whispered.
His soul is not dead. Make it scream.
Kimberly threw herself into it. She pulled the rumal tighter and tighter with
relish. The ambassdor's mouth actually fell open. With two fingers, she
reached in and pulled out his long, discolored tongue. It looked like a short
black tie hanging down his chin.
As a last gesture, she plucked his eyelids up. They had been sealed shut with
spirit gum.
The Iraiti ambassador's fixed eyes held the same expression of horror that
they had when Kimberly last saw him.
"It is done," Kimberly said, sealing the lid.
Excellent, my vessel. The tyrant Maddas cannot ignore this provocation.
"I am glad you approve, my lady."
I do. The tongue was a nice touch too.
Chapter 41
The Army Corps of Engineers had already unloaded their earth-moving equipment
when the army helicopter deposited Harold Smith in the fenced-off desert
outside of Palm Springs, California.
A balding young lieutenant was running a Geiger counter around a crater that
resembled a fused sinkhole of blackened glass, getting only a desultory
clicking for his trouble.
"I am Colonel Smith," Harold Smith said, adjusting the collar of the old khaki
uniform that had hung in his attic.
"Lieutenant Latham," the young man said, shutting off the machine and
returning Smith's handshake. "Background radiation is normal, sir."
"I understood that. Are you ready to begin excavation?"
"We've been waiting for your arrival."
"MAC flights are hard to come by these days. Since Kuran."
"Tell me about it. Let me show you the size of the nut we have to crack."
They walked across the brittle glass. It gave under their feet with a
crunching like a shattered but intact windshield of safety glass. Where the
heavy equipment was, uniformed engineers clustered around a huge cap of
concrete half-smothered by windblown sand. It resembled an ugly gray plug.
Soldiers were sweeping the flat surface free of sand. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]